


Vital Lesson

by IrelandSpades



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Death, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, Four Horsemen, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2368013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrelandSpades/pseuds/IrelandSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn't need to be instructed. There was no lesson that needed learning that he didn't know already. How wrong he was and his unique instructor was about to educate him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I checked Major Character Death but it's not permanent.

“Do you believe in angels, John?”

John choked a bit on the sip of tea he just swallowed. Coughing to clear his throat, John looked over at his flat mate. Sherlock was stretched out on the leather sofa with his hands folded across his abdomen. Honestly, John was not surprised at the questions knowing what happened during the last case. Ginger haired men and women had been showing up dead around London with their throats slit. Sherlock had been working the case for five days and was at a stand still. When Sherlock was about to rip his hair out a simple phone call to his mobile solved the case. A woman called and told him a street name in South London and said one sentence: ‘The blood is ginger.’ Upon researching, it was discovered a private butcher was killing ginger haired men and women that walked past his shop. His shop was on the street the woman told Sherlock about. He had been draining the people’s blood with the animal’s blood and disposing of the bodies around his shop. Once closing the case, Sherlock had immediately tracked down the caller.

It was a ginger haired woman. When pressed about how she knew about the murders and how to call Sherlock, she had simply shrugged her shoulders and smiled weakly.

“An angel.”

Sherlock had paused momentarily as if he didn’t understand the word. “A what?”

“I walk down that street once a month to visit my uncle. Yesterday, something made me stop. I felt like I couldn’t move forward; couldn’t walk down that street. Something or someone made me walk down to the next block.”

“The phone call?”

She blushed slightly before answering. “Once I was walking down the next street, I felt an overwhelming urge to make a phone call. I didn’t know to whom but the urge was there. When I took my mobile out, I just dialed a number and said what was running through my mind. That was it.

“I’m not crazy, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know how, what or why this happened. I’m going to chalk it up to my guardian angel looking after me.”

Sherlock had been quiet the entire way back to the flat and for the remainder of the evening. This question had finally been asked twenty-four hours later.

John paused for long enough that Sherlock had sat up and turned to set his legs back to the floor. He watched John and waited.

John kept it simple. “Yes, I believe in angels.”

Confusion flooded Sherlock’s face a moment before he surged from the couch and started pacing. John watched as Sherlock planted one hand on his hip and the other hand rubbed the back of his head. He knew the dilemma that Sherlock was going through. John went through the same dilemma every once in a while during a moment of doubt and confusion. He set aside his cup of tea and the book he was reading to wait and listen.

“Eighty-three percent of the human population worldwide believe in angels or a higher deity. Why? There is no evidence. No evidence for or against. Why would people make random decisions and attribute it to religious interference if it turns out to be a good decision? It’s a statistical probability that the decision will turn out positive,” Sherlock muttered as he continued moving around the flat.

“Because it’s not just random decisions, Sherlock. That woman had no other reason to walk down a different street other than what she felt. If she had walked down it, then statistically we would be inspecting her dead body.”

Sherlock stopped and looked at John.

“Why do you believe in angels? You’re slightly more intelligent than the idiotic populace.”

John snorted and stood to collect his cooling cup of tea and walked to the kitchen. He was hesitant to tell Sherlock why he believed in angels, knowing the younger man would laugh or ridicule him. There had been multiple instances throughout his life but the one that had confirmed his belief revolved around Sherlock. How would the genius detective react to knowing that the morning of the day they met, John had held his gun and was about to place it in his mouth to pull the trigger? John couldn’t say what made him hesitate. That just as he started to squeeze the trigger, John realized he wanted to see the sky one last time; breath fresh air one last time. He had intended to finish it when he arrived back at the flat but then he bumped into Mike Stamford. He had never looked at his gun that way again.

“John?”

John flinched and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. He looked back at his mug and slowly poured out the remainder of the liquid.

“I just do, Sherlock. Nothing I can say will convince you and I’m not in the mood to be ridiculed for my beliefs. Just accept the fact that I’ve seen a lot and my conclusion is that angels exist.”

“You mean during your time in Afghanistan?”

“No, not entirely,” John replied quietly and washed his mug quickly.

He went to walk past Sherlock but stopped when a firm hand grabbed his elbow. John could feel memories start to churn in his chest and he had to get away before Sherlock saw. He had to keep his face blank. Sherlock couldn’t know the truth.

“John?”

The soft baritone rumbled through John’s chest and his attention focused on the slight tightening of the hand still gripping his elbow. He stared at the delicate, long fingered hand and he saw it but his mind was elsewhere.

“When I was a child, I had a friend whose father was abusive. He would miss days of school and when he came back there were bruises and scratches. Another student must have noticed and told a teacher. I learned a few days later that the father had gotten wind that it was being looked into. He nearly beat his son to death with a golf club. The father told friends that he had gone to stay with his grandparents. It wasn’t discovered until later that the son had been in the house all along. Broken wrist, perforated spleen, concussion, fractured eye socket among other scrapes and cuts. The father tried to flee and there was a massive auto wreck. He wrecked into a lorry hauling golf clubs and several impaled him. Poetic justice at its finest. That’s one of the reason why I believe in angels.”

He shrugged out of Sherlock’s grasp and slowly walked up the stairs to his bedroom, leaving the consulting detective behind in the kitchen doorway. John had multiple reasons why he believed in angels. Surviving the war. Surviving his childhood. Surviving his own depression. Bumping into Mike Stamford. Having Sherlock Holmes as a friend. Being Sherlock’s friend. Though, if John wanted to be truthful to himself he wanted more than just friendship. It took him a long time to admit it. He wanted Sherlock’s love. It had been his only thought for the past three months every time he looked at the dark haired genius. But common sense had won out. He would rather keep the friendship if a relationship was unlikely. There was no misunderstanding ‘Married to my work’. John was happy with what he had. Yes, the grass may have been greener on the other side but John knew how that theory usually played out. He knew crossing that fence meant he couldn’t uncross it. He was okay on his side.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Sherlock glanced at John for a brief moment before looking back at the body in front of him. John had been acting odd since the angel conversation a few days ago. He sometimes caught the doctor just staring at him as if caught in a thought and not able to dispel it. Occasionally he would blush and look away before Sherlock could comment or question. Despite everything he could read in John’s posture and clothing, nothing hinted at what was bothering him. Shaking his head, he looked back to the body and took one more glance before standing.

“This is a pointless killing, Lestrade. This man was homeless and penniless. There was nothing for the killer to steal. The killer dressed him nicer clothing after drawing odd cartoons on the skin. Check the recently discharged male mental health patients. Canvas the local stores and residents to see if they recall any odd occurrences. This location is important for some reason,” Sherlock directed and Lestrade nodded while writing.

At his words, John twitches before tilting his head slightly and looking around. Before Sherlock can understand the actions, John is suddenly moving and barrels into Sherlock just as the crack of a bullet breaking the sound barrier reaches their ears. John jerks against Sherlock as they tumble to the ground and everyone ducks for cover. John and Sherlock land behind a metal dumpster and John’s hands are immediately fumbling over Sherlock’s torso.

“Are you hit, Sherlock? Are you hit?” John asks frantically and pulls at the heavy coat and suit jacket.

Sherlock does a quick scan of his transport and other than soreness from the tackle and hitting the ground he is unhurt.

“No, I’m fine,” he replied as he looks up to John and suddenly feels his mind slow.

A stream of blood trickles down John’s coat from the hole Sherlock can clearly see in the fabric.

“John,” he whispers and slowly reaches out to swipe his fingers through the red liquid.

At Sherlock’s expression, John looks down at his chest and immediately notices the blood, pulsing out in time with his elevated heartbeat. His own fingers move to touch the blood and he lifted his fingers to look at the liquid and rubs it between the pads of his fingers.

“Oh.”

It’s like someone cut all the strings holding John vertical and he starts to crumple to the side. Sherlock lunges forward and eases his fall with one arm while his other presses his palm to the wound. John’s hands spasm around Sherlock’s hand as he tries to control his reaction to the onslaught of pain.

“John! John, it’ll be okay. Lestrade! Mycroft!” Sherlock screams; screams for anyone that could possibly help.

“It’s okay...Sher...Sherlock. I’d-I’d do it again,” John murmurs as his head rolls slightly and his eyelids slowly flutter.

“Stay with me, John! Keep your eyes open,” Sherlock orders as he digs for his mobile with his free hand.

Just as he unlocks the device John’s bloody hand slowly wraps around his to stop him from dialing. His gaze snaps to John’s and reads what he doesn’t want to admit in the doctor’s eyes.

“Won’t..make...it in...time. Jus-...talk to...me...please.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened painfully as his mind raced through possibilities and he soon realized that John was correct. The amount of blood he was losing and the average response time of London’s paramedics suggested he wouldn’t even make it to hospital and die enroute. Even with Mycroft’s connections, he couldn’t just snap his fingers and clear all the traffic from here to hospital. John’s breathing was getting more labored but his gaze was locked on Sherlock. Sherlock heard Lestrade on his mobile yelling for an ambulance and trying to figure out where the sniper was. Sherlock sobbed slightly at the realization that he was about to lose something important but he didn’t know what.

He cleared his throat and started speaking:

 

_In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;_

_And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring._

_Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity._

_Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour._

_Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?_

_Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?_

Lestrade and the others slowly approached the two on the ground and heard Sherlock speaking. The sniper had been handled and now the repercussions were obvious. All movement and activity stopped as everyone became aware of the emotional storm brewing nearby. Lestrade felt the emotion burn in his chest and throat as he watched the genius say goodbye to his first and only friend. Donovan had tears streaming down her face and she was clinging to Anderson’s shirt. Anderson for once had lost the condescending expression and finally observed. Observed the friendship that was doomed to end too early. Sherlock ignored them all.

 

_For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?_

_And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?_

Sherlock saw John’s weak smile as his eyelids fluttered close. He was aware of the medical concept of the death rattle. He had even heard it a few times during his time as a junkie and then as a consulting detective. He never intended to hear it from his friend; his only friend.

 

_Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing._

_And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb._

_And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance._

 

Sherlock’s bottom lip quivered as he slowly pulled his hand away from John’s chest and back to his own lap. He remained kneeling there, staring at John’s slack face. Why was this bothering him so much? John was just a friend. He had lost friends before. Yes, he mourned them but never to his extent. Never did the emotions near the shattering grief that consumed him now. Sounds around him faded away and all that was left was a low pitched hum. He felt very...in the moment. Like he couldn’t believe there was anything after this. Nothing to move forward to; couldn’t go back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where we were last:
> 
> Sherlock’s bottom lip quivered as he slowly pulled his hand away from John’s chest and back to his own lap. He remained kneeling there, staring at John’s slack face. Why was this bothering him so much? John was just a friend. He had lost friends before. Yes, he mourned them but never to his extent. Never did the emotions near the shattering grief that consumed him now. Sounds around him faded away and all that was left was a low pitched hum. He felt very...in the moment. Like he couldn’t believe there was anything after this. Nothing to move forward to; couldn’t go back.

“Ah, I do so enjoy Kahlil Gibran.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up and looked at the well dressed woman that stood a few feet away from John and him. She was staring at John’s still body until her gaze lifted and locked with Sherlock’s stormy glare. Sherlock broke the connection first as his gaze darted down her body and back up to gather everything that he could. Which was...practically nothing. Skirt suit with white button down shirt underneath the jacket. No hairs or lint or discolorations on the suit. Almost like it had come straight from the factory and onto her body. Black stilettos and beige hosiery; no scuffs or stray hairs or snags. No jewelry or adornments. Real hair color, simple fashion. Nothing important to deduce who she was.

He turned to snap at Lestrade but froze. No one was there. They had just been behind him. The police lights were still strobing but there was no other human around. The street had vehicles dotted along the way but no humans to drive them. He turned to look over his other shoulder but still saw no one. There were no humans that he could see...anywhere.

Slowly, his head turned back to look at the woman. Her left eyebrow rose slightly in an unspoken challenge.

“Are you an angel?”

Normally Sherlock would scoff at the idea but the situation and previous case made it a current and valid question.

Her bark of laughter was startling. “No. Hardly.”

“Can you bring John back?”

“No.”

“Then what good are you? Leave,” Sherlock snarled and dropped his gaze back to John.

Her heels clicked softly on the pavement as she approached and Sherlock sensed her stop right behind him. His shoulders tightened as a soft breath ruffled his hair just by his ear.

“Think, Sherlock, and use that brilliant mind. Someone just died and your surroundings have drastically been altered. You can’t deduce anything about me,” she whispered and straightened before continuing her circuit around him and John.

Sherlock’s mind raced and settled on a logical explanation.

“You’re a grim reaper. You collect deceased souls.”

His gaze slowly rose to hers. Religion was not important to him but he knew the details of all the major religions. Murders were committed by religious fanatics and for religious reasons. He knew of Death and the siblings; the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse; Famine, War, Conquest and Death; the Black, Red, White and Pale horses. With the knowledge, for a brief moment he saw darkness in her gaze.

“I’m not just a grim reaper. I’m The Grim Reaper. I am Death. And I’ve come to collect my bounty,” she replied and looked down at John’s still body.

“Why?”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock stood and glared at her. “Why let me see you? Why the conversation? 155,00 die per day. You wouldn’t take the time to stop and chat.”

She raised an eyebrow at that and a small smile stretched her blood red lips. The smile was there for a brief moment before it slipped away. She shot a dirty look towards the sky before looking back to Sherlock.

“I’m having a chat with you because I lost a bet and it has come due. John Watson owns many favors owed to him by many people around the world. And that is why I am here; to give you a chance to win John Watson’s life and soul,” she said and slowly approached Sherlock.

“Win John’s life and soul? How would I do that? You just said you couldn’t bring him back,” Sherlock asked, his mind whirling to keep up.

“Simple, I would endeavor to enlighten you to a certain fact and if or when you reach a certain conclusion then I will relinquish my claim on John Watson’s soul. True, I can’t bring him back but I can...rewind and let a scene replay and conveniently forget to wipe your memory of what happens in the very near future. Allowing you to...tweak what happens,” she said vaguely and stood just on the opposite side of John’s body and looked across at Sherlock.

They were about the same height so Sherlock didn’t have to look down at her like he had to do with most people. The grief was still sharp in his chest but the mere hint that she could bring back John had something jumping in his heart. Anything, anything to bring back his friend. That something in his chest churned again unhappily but he pushed it aside. He didn’t have time for it.

He watched as she looked down at John again and a bright deduction flashed suddenly in his mind. His jaw clenched in realization.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve...visited John,” he muttered and her head lifted again.

“No. When I look at people I see all the times that I came close to having to pay a visit. I’ve been near you a few times during your life. That time you were a child and you almost drowned. During your junkie years. I was there for all of them,” she replied and stepped away.

She slowly circled them while Sherlock stood next to John. Her heels clicked sharply as Sherlock recalled his near death moments. There were more than she had mentioned; several more but she had proved her point.

“Afghanistan for John.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t the first time,” she murmured and Sherlock’s head swiveled around to look at her.

For a moment there he thought he heard remorse in her voice. But could Death feel remorse? Apparently she could if her saddened eyes meant anything.

“Samuel Clemens once wrote: let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry. Despite the bad hands he has been dealt, John Watson always strove to come out on the other side better.”

“Bad hands?” Sherlock asked and her hand lifted.

A sharp snap of her fingers changed the scene and Sherlock looked around in brief panic before his gaze narrowed on the small figure on the floor. It was a young boy, beaten and bloody. He breathed weakly as Sherlock focused on the injuries. The weapon was discarded on the floor near him; a golf club. The scene was suddenly painfully familiar. John had described it. A friend during school whose father had beaten him; beaten him almost to death. The door behind him was thrown open and a young girl came running in closely followed by paramedics.

“John!” the young girl screamed and fell to her knees to the bloody carpet.

Sherlock reeled back in surprise. It hadn’t been a school friend, it had been John himself. His father had almost beaten him to death. Why didn’t Sherlock see the lie when John told him? Because you were too intent on his warm smell, his mind helpfully supplied and Sherlock snarled silently.

He watched as the paramedics frantically worked on young John. Harriett was crouched off to the side sobbing in her hands. A social worker appeared and bundled Harriett off.

“How long was he in hospital?”

“Two months. He needed a bone graft for one of the breaks. Too young for those scars,” she replied softly.

They were silent as the paramedics loaded John onto a stretcher and rolled him from the house. Sherlock stared after him and listened to the silence left behind.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“This is just the first of many things I’m going to show you, Sherlock. And hopefully you will learn the intended lesson,” she replied and reached out to touch Sherlock’s forehead.

He blinked and they were in a new location. Spinning in place, he easily identified Borough Market on the opposite side of London. It was raining and just past sunset. The crowds were thinning out and some of the stalls were starting to pack up their wares. Sherlock was confused as to why they came here until a familiar figure passed him. It was John and he made a beeline for a stall staffed by an older woman. She smiled brightly at him and reached under the counter.

“Good to see you, Doctor Watson. I have your jar right here. Good move calling me earlier to request I hold a jar for you. The rest of my inventory went fast this morning,” she said and put the jar into a small paper bag.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the brief glimpse of the glass jar. It was his preferred brand of honey. There was always a bottle of it in the cupboard. He just assumed it came from Tesco like the rest of the groceries. The groceries that John always picked up, he realized quickly and shook his head to focus on John’s exchange.

“Well, your honey is quite popular. You have my utmost thanks, Madeline, for holding a jar for me,” John replied and pulled out his wallet.

Madeline raised an eyebrow and her lips pursed in contemplation. “Must be someone important to you. To go through all this hassle for just a jar of honey. Must be a special lady.”

John flushed slightly and handed over a few notes. Sherlock noted that he handed over more than he would expect for just a jar of honey.

“Not a special lady.”

Madeline smiled and raised both eyebrows. “Oohh, special guy then.”

John blushed even harder and cleared his throat as he slipped his wallet back into his back pocket. Madeline handed over the paperbag and held onto it when John took it from her. John looked up at her when she pulled on the bag to catch his attention.

“Does he know that you go out of your way to pick up his favorite honey?”

John stared at her before slowly shaking his head. Nothing else was spoken as they stared at each other before Madeline sadly smiled and released the bag. John fumbled with the bag for a moment before rolling it around the jar and slipping it into his pocket.

“Thanks, Madeline. See you next time,” John said and turned to walk away.

“Take care, Doctor Watson. Don’t let him break your heart.”

John hesitated before glancing over his shoulder at Madeline with a weak smile. “Knowing him as I do...it’s an unavoidable hazard.”

He turned back around and walked off. Sherlock watched the exchange before the scene froze and Death walked into his line of sight. She didn’t look at him but walked to a nearby stand and looked over the items.

“Any thoughts?” she asked, innocently and Sherlock snarled at her.

“I have many thoughts. To which ones are you referring,” he replied and tried to organize the new information flooding his mind.

“Thoughts concerning Doctor Watson obviously.”

“It’s idiotic to travel across London just for a jar of honey that could easily be purchased at the local Tesco.”

Sherlock refused to acknowledge the brewing emotions in his chest. Emotions were useless and pointless. There was no need to inspect, evaluate or even admit to them. Without regret he shoved them into his mind palace’s incinerator; free up space. He didn’t care if John went out of his way to purchase Sherlock’s preferred honey. Or that he did it after a rough day at work and in the rain. He did it because he was Sherlock’s friend. He happened to be in the area and decided to pick up a jar. There was nothing behind it.

Death turned and raised both eyebrows at his answer. Surprise on Death’s face was a previously unknown entity but it was there now.

“Seriously?” Sherlock stared blankly at her before she sighed. “Of course it wouldn’t be easy. He knew exactly what he was betting.”

She growled softly before shaking her head briefly. “Fine. Next stop.”

Death walked up to him and touched Sherlock’s forehead again.

Sherlock staggered momentarily before finding his balance and looking around. It was just before sunset in a semi empty alley. He recognized it a moment later. It from a case a few months earlier. Homeless adults had been found dead scattered around London; all with unique tox-screens. Suggesting that they had been chemically experimented on. The bodies had been washed and scrubbed clean before being dropped in random locations. The bodies had shown evidence of prior drug use and Sherlock had theorized that that was how they were taken so easily off the street. The criminals would visit the alleys and known places for junkies and pick up the stoned ones. That had led to a sting operation with Sherlock as the bait. John was adamant against it but Sherlock quickly disregarded John’s concerns.

John had all the drug he would need to give Sherlock the look of being drugged out of his mind without actually using the real stuff which was Sherlock’s first plan. But when both Lestrade and John threatened to take him off the case and lock him away until the criminals were caught, Sherlock had finally relented.

Sherlock was dressed in ratty, ill fitting clothes and had purposefully not showered or shaved in a few days to get into characters. Something John had abundantly made his displeasure known.

“Alright, Sherlock, I’m going to put a few drops of tropicamide into your eyes. It will dilate the pupils to the level we need. I’m also going to give you a dose of phenobarbital to sedate you. If your theory is correct, they check the people before they take them to see how far under they are or if they are just sleeping. This will depress your body’s system enough to convince them,” John explained quietly.

“We hope,” Lestrade muttered from behind him.

“Oh, what could possibly go wrong? John implanted a subdermal tracker so you can track me once they pick me up. You can follow at a reasonable distance to where they do the experiments and have all the proof you need to arrest them. He also insisted on forcing a wireless heart monitor on me so he can monitor my vitals,” Sherlock lectured and leaned against the wall so he was at better height for John to administer the eyedrops.

“A lot can still go wrong, Sherlock,” John snapped and dropped the small bottle in his bag after applying a few drops to Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock wiped away the escaped liquid and blinked to distribute the chemical. John sighed and pulled from his bag a vial and a hypodermic.

“Now sit down before I administer this. I’m giving you a slightly higher dose than recommended to counteract your tolerance,” John ordered and followed Sherlock to the dirty ground.

Sherlock leaned against the brick wall and watched as John drew up a dose and cleaned his arm with an alcohol swab. John took a deep breath and administered the dose quickly; he capped the hypodermic and dropped it back into his bag before turning his gaze to Sherlock. The detective stared back and raised an eyebrow. John’s jaw clenched before he reached out and gently peeled back an eyelid to check the dilation.

“How much of a higher dose did you give me?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes.

“Enough that it’ll-” John reached out and caught Sherlock as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he sagged forward limply “-hit you hard and fast.”

John gently cradled Sherlock’s head as he tilted him to the side and laid him out on the floor. With precise movements, John quickly checked over his vitals and monitored them for a few moments before nodding to Lestrade.

“He’s showing the classic signs of being a druggie.”

“And his tracker is active. Lets get out of sight,” Lestrade said and waited for John to stand.

John gently brushed the backs of his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek as he stared at the consulting detective. His thumb brushed against Sherlock’s bottom lip before he pulled his hand away. He pulled up a ratty blanket and draped it over the still body before grabbing his bag and standing.

“When are you going to tell him, John?” Lestrade asked quietly and John’s shoulders tensed.

“Never, Greg. Not if I can help it,” John muttered and they walked to the nearby surveillance lorry.

The scene froze as Death and Sherlock slowly approached. Sherlock circled the frozen John and tried to understand his earlier actions. Why touch his face? Why is there such grief in John’s face? What was John supposed to tell him? He remembered how that case had concluded. When he started to become conscious, he found himself strapped to a table with his head tilted to the right and strapped in place so he couldn’t move or lift his head. When he had tried, he felt a sharp pain at the top of his throat and immediately realized he had a central line inserted in his jugular vein. When he had opened his eyes, he saw John and Lestrade finishing a fight with the criminals and yelling for the other officers. Once all the threats were neutralized, John ran to Sherlock’s table and after one glanced started yelling for Lestrade to come and help him. John had taken control of the situation and in short order had Sherlock sitting up with gauze pressed tightly against his neck. Sherlock could remember how gentle John had been but had attributed it to John being John. He always took gentle care of his patients. But he had seen John with other patients and he was never this delicate with them. He never let his touch linger this much without a medical need. A deleted memory arose from Sherlock’s subconscious. When John had stepped close to tape down the square of gauze Sherlock found himself leaning into John’s comforting warmth. He had buried his nose into John’s jacket and jumper and let the smell wash over him. He didn’t admit it verbally but for a moment when he woke up he had been frightened, scared even but then he saw John. Knew John wouldn’t let any harm come to him.

“Any thoughts now, Mr. Holmes?” Death asked as Sherlock continued to circle John’s figure.

Sherlock spared her a glance before looking back to John. He observed everything she had shown him so far but he couldn’t find the connection. Why show him these things? What was he supposed to learn? Yes, John was his friend but he already knew that. He hated not knowing vital information and it was obvious to him now that he was missing something. Something that everyone seemed to already realize. It also seemed to be more important than the silly solar system.

“You’re showing me scenes of our various interactions but why? I was present at all these. There is nothing here that I do not already know.”

Death walked near him and was just about to pass behind him when she paused and leaned over his shoulder.

“Are you sure about that?” she purred before pulling back and continuing to walk past him.

Alright, so let’s entertain the ridiculous thought that he missed something. Something pertaining to John and his friendship. What was it? What was he missing?

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where we were last:
> 
> “You’re showing me scenes of our various interactions but why? I was present at all these. There is nothing here that I do not already know.”  
>  Death walked near him and was just about to pass behind him when she paused and leaned over his shoulder.  
>  “Are you sure about that?” she purred before pulling back and continuing to walk past him.  
>  Alright, so let’s entertain the ridiculous thought that he missed something. Something pertaining to John and his friendship. What was it? What was he missing?

Death snapped her fingers and they were back at the original alley. It was frozen to when Sherlock was still looking over the body. His gaze immediately went towards the window where the sniper was waiting; waiting for Sherlock. Looking away from the distant window, Sherlock looked to John and slowly approached the shorter man.

“What do you see?” Death whispered as she walked past him and stood on the other side of John.

Her dark eyes watched as Sherlock turned his focus onto the bigger picture and tried to set aside his logic and reason. John was watching Sherlock as he deduced the scene. There was such fondness in John’s expression as he watched Sherlock. Sherlock had never seen such a look. Did John only look at Sherlock like that when Sherlock wasn’t able to notice? What else did Sherlock miss when he wasn’t looking? Did John ever give that look to anyone other than Sherlock? His past girlfriends? Former lovers? When did John last bring a boring woman by the flat? Sherlock’s brilliant mind stuttered; he couldn’t remember.

“Why would John jump in front of a bullet for you? Why would you jump off a building for him?” Death questioned as she circled Sherlock and John.

“He’s my friend.”

“How many people do you know that would jump in front of a bullet for their friends? No, it’s much simpler than that. You’re just not observing properly. Try again.”

Smaller observations started to climb from his deleted bin. A hot cup of tea and sandwich waiting for him when he finished an intense experiment. Finding a blanket blocking out the chill on a night he collapsed on the sofa in exhaustion. The honey that Sherlock knew wasn’t available at the local Tesco. The warm sensation in his chest when John praised him. Finding himself staring at John while he made tea or read the paper, with no reason but just to look at him. Feeling concern about how John would react to his decisions. Feeling happier when John came home from work. Checking that he never used John’s mug for an experiment. Hesitating before putting a small foodsaver with amputated fingers in the fridge; writing what it was clearly on the lid and putting it on the non-food shelf. But why? Why would John do these things? Why would Sherlock respond and do something as equally...

“Yes!” Death breathed the affirmative and Sherlock glanced at her before looking away just as quickly. “Oh, yes, it’s that dreaded s-word. That disgusting chemical defect, always found on the losing side. But tell me...who’s on the losing side now? What is that burning and boiling feeling in your chest when you think of a future without John Watson? What is that unknown loss that is carving into your chest every time you breath?

“What. Have. You. Lost?”

Sherlock’s throat tightened painfully around the word. He always ridiculed it. Derided it and dismissed it. It had no importance to him. But it did now.

“Sentiment,” he whispered and she nodded.

“Why do you fear it so?” she replied just as softly, curious to his reasonings.

“I don’t fear it,” Sherlock replied heatedly and glared at her.

She pursed her lips and smirked at him as she shifted and looked at him from over John’s other shoulder. She leaned forward and rested her chin on John’s shoulder to watch the genius.

“Oh, you fear many things, Mr. Holmes, but you bury them deep. You bury your fears so deep inside and you fear confronting them. You fear confronting them and what they may mean,” she whispered and moved away from John until she was behind Sherlock.

They both stared at the frozen John as she rested her chin on his shoulder and pressed her lips to the shell of his ear.

“You fear where they may lead you. To a word and sensation far more dangerous than just sentiment,” she whispered, hissing on the s sound.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and slowly opened the barred door in his mind palace. The barred door that creaked and groaned from disuse. Death was right. Sentiment took him down a dark hallway and he feared what may or may not lie at the end of that hallway. Why wouldn’t he fear it? He had been ridiculed and teased and hurt all his life. Since he could speak, he had alienated people; friends, acquaintances, family, associates. He was barely tolerated, why would John...No. Death must be wrong. There was no way. After everything he had done to John, said to him, subjected him to, there was no way possible. No one could feel that way for him.

Opening the door allowed everything locked in that room to flood the hallways of his mind palace. Glimpses that he had caught directed towards him. Gentle words that reached out to him when he was only partially conscious.

“You’re...my best friend.”

“Amazing.”

“I don’t want you to change”

“Brilliant.”

Gentle passing touches. Evenings in the entry hallway giggling after a successful case. The heat of an untaken action. The possibility of more. Wanting more.

“Almost there, Sherlock,” Death murmured and Sherlock’s attention came back to the present.

Every memory that Death had shown him swarmed over him again. More memories that she hadn’t brought up but were there just the same. His eyes jumped to John’s frozen expression and the answer was there. The answer was always there but he was too stupid to realize it; too stupid to read it. Or too smart. He had become so adept at observing and solving complex problems that when he was confronted by a simple problem he overthought it; made it too complex when it wasn’t.

He was in love with John Watson.

And, more astoundingly, John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

The knowledge took him to his knees, figuratively and literally. He knelt there in front of John Watson and knew he didn’t deserve him. Wanted him with a craving stronger than any drug possible but knowing he didn’t deserve him. John deserved someone that listened. Someone that cleaned up after themselves. Someone that didn’t shoot the walls in boredom. Someone that wouldn’t piss him off on a weekly basis.

“But he doesn’t want someone. He wants you.”

Sherlock stared up at John and drank in the view of him. It was like someone had pulled off the rose colored glasses. He admired the broad lines of John’s shoulders. His strong, calloused hands. That sparkle in John’s eyes that was there whenever he looked at Sherlock. The full blown smile that John only let Sherlock see in the privacy of their flat. Sherlock suddenly realized that he wanted that smile all for himself. He didn’t want to share it with anyone. He wanted to do anything and everything he could to make John smile like that every day. How? How does he cross the chasm that he built around himself. How does he take John into his arms and never let go?

“How? How do I fix this?” he asked and looked at Death.

“There is nothing to fix, Sherlock,” she replied and Sherlock shook his head.

“I...I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to love him. How do I...start things?”

Death smiled and walked till she was behind Sherlock. She stroked down the back of his head and let her hand settle on the back of his neck. Her other arm wrapped around his chest to cradle his back to her front. Instead of the warmth he expected, Sherlock felt a coolness at his back through his coat.

“You show him, Sherlock. With small moments. Lives are built around infinite, small moments. Small moments that take your breath away. Always try to take his breath away and be as you are. That’s who he fell in love with.”

Sherlock blinked.

“This location is important for some reason.”

Awareness snapped back to Sherlock with frightening speed and he started moving before he realized it. Sherlock surged forward and slammed his body against John who was already moving towards Sherlock. The force of impact between the two of them knocked the breath from Sherlock as they started to fall. The crack of the bullet preceded a sharp burning sensation localized at Sherlock’s arm. Clenching his fists into John’s jacket, he manhandled the older man behind the dumpster and immediately ripped open the jacket. His hands roved over the warm chest but didn’t find any red.

“Sherlock? Are you hit?”

Sherlock fumbled for the bottom edge of the jumper and jerked it up, ignoring the indignant noises coming from John. He could find no injury; no life ending shot.

“Sherlock, what they bloody hell are you doing?”

He looked up and saw John’s face. Despite being manhandled and almost stripped behind a dumpster, there was a sparkle of something tender in his eyes. Sherlock’s breath caught as he identified it. Love. A sparkle of love in John’s eyes for Sherlock.

Sherlock surged forward and cradled John’s face between his hands as he kissed him fiercely. He had no experience in this but he had seen enough to know the rudimentary basics. The basics though didn’t hint or suggest at the burning heat that flooded through Sherlock’s body at the contact. John’s lips were warm and moist and currently frozen in shock against Sherlock’s. Sherlock shifted until he was straddling John’s lap but kept his weight on his knees and off John. Sherlock pulled back momentarily and felt John’s breath ghost over his lips. Sherlock kept his eyes closed; he wouldn’t be able to say what he wanted to say if he had to look in John’s warm eyes with that sparkle.

“I love you John. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. I love you for picking up my favorite honey from the market that is in no way on your way home. I love you for calling ahead to make sure they save a jar for you. I love you for caring about my body when I didn’t or wouldn’t. I love that my heart beats a little faster when you enter the room.”

Sherlock released a shuddering breath and forced himself to continue. “I love that smile that you never let anyone else see but me. I love that your scent makes my mind slow down and all I want to do is curl myself around you and never let go. I love you John. I don’t know how you did it but you found my heart and it’s yours for as long as you want it. It’s yours to do what you will with it. I love you.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There; he had shown his cards and laid it all out on the table for John. It was forever only for John. Despite the conclusion Death had guided him towards, Sherlock knew he could still be in the wrong. Perhaps he should have waited until they got back to the flat. Done this in private and not in front of people they worked with. Was the way he did it acceptable? Did he say something not good?

A cool hand wrapped around his neck while another hand cradled his cheek. His eyelids slowly opened to immediately lock with John. The sparkle was brighter.

“I love you too, Sherlock. God do I love you, you mad, brilliant man,” John said and pulled Sherlock forward.

Before John’s lips were frozen against Sherlock’s in shock but now, now they dominated the younger man. He moaned as John’s tongue brushed against his bottom lip and he willing opened his mouth. Sensation and lack of oxygen made him dizzy but he didn’t care. He only cared about the man in front of him that he came so close to losing. Sherlock’s fingers flexed against the jumper as John snogged him senseless and he sank into it. He never wanted to come up for air. This was where he belonged. Kissing John Watson.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where we were last:
> 
>  
> 
> Before John’s lips were frozen against Sherlock’s in shock but now, now they dominated the younger man. He moaned as John’s tongue brushed against his bottom lip and he willing opened his mouth. Sensation and lack of oxygen made him dizzy but he didn’t care. He only cared about the man in front of him that he came so close to losing. Sherlock’s fingers flexed against the jumper as John snogged him senseless and he sank into it. He never wanted to come up for air. This was where he belonged. Kissing John Watson.

John’s hand slid down to his bicep and a flare of pain interrupted the lovely kiss. Jerking back, he hissed sharply and grabbed at his bicep. John jerked back and immediately focused on the source. Sherlock’s hand was bloody from gripping his upper arm.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock grimaced in pain as John’s hands started to carefully but quickly push off his coat. His shirt was torn and bloody at his right bicep. The dark grey fabric was soaked in blood down to his elbow and John was ruthless. He gripped the fabric and ripped it sharply, ignoring the protests from Sherlock. The shirt was ruined anyway, John reasoned and turned the appendage to get a better view. The blood came from a deep gouge across the outside of Sherlock’s bicep. John grimaced but knew it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could be. It would need cleaning and stitching but it would heal. Another scar to add to Sherlock’s collection; his intentional and not intentional scar collection.

“Nothing too bad. I can fix it back at the flat. Unless you want to go to hospital?” John asked with a smirk.

Sherlock just growled in reply and sat there as John continued to rip the shirt and used the remains of the sleeve to wrap around his bicep. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself. His uninjured arm reached out and his fingers shyly rubbed against John’s outer thigh. John didn’t stop wrapping his arm but he smiled at the movement. Sherlock took the smile to indicate that this was permissible. John finished with his arm and helped him put his arm back into the sleeve of his Belstaff. Sherlock wrapped a hand around the back of John’s neck and pulled the man closer and kissed him. Now that he had experienced how pleasurable kissing was he wanted more. And John was very willing. John fisted his Belstaff and held him tightly against his chest. Sherlock was quickly getting lost when a throat was cleared loudly behind them. John flushed slightly and held Sherlock when the detective slumped against him. Lestrade was redder than John had ever seen him. Behind Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson and a few other officers were trying very hard to look anywhere but at John and Sherlock.

“Yeah, Greg?” John asked as one of his hands wrapped around the back of Sherlock’s neck safely.

Lestrade smirked slightly and nodded. “Take him home. Come by tomorrow to give your statements.”

He turned and yelled at everyone to actually do their job and leave John and Sherlock alone. John laughed softly and helped Sherlock to his feet. They caught a taxi to the flat and once inside John forced Sherlock onto the kitchen stool and ordered him to stay. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock did as he was ordered and started to take off his Belstaff. He ruefully glared at the sleeve and knew he would have to get it repaired.

Sherlock looked up when John appeared carrying his medic kit. The Belstaff was tossed aside for later and he sat quietly as John quickly rid him of his shirt and started to unwrap the temporary bandage. Sherlock watched and admired John’s skill. He swiftly injected a local anesthetic and set out what he would need while the chemical worked. He cleaned the wound thoroughly and stitched it closed with tight and neat stitches. Sherlock watched his delicate fingertips as he used the needle and thread and tied it off.

“I’ll need to change this once a day. If you take a shower, it’ll need to be cleaned afterwards to prevent infection,” John explained as he rubbed a salve over it and wrapped it with a sterile bandage.

Sherlock reached out and carefully looped his finger in John’s belt loop. He tugged John forward gently until he stood between Sherlock’s spread knees. Sherlock knew there was something that he wanted but he wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Didn’t know how to ask for it. This was uncharted territory for him. Sherlock lowered his gaze and gently pressed his forehead against John’s chest. Sherlock normally wasn’t uncomfortable shirtless but for some reason now he was shy.

“John.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “My John.”

John reached up and ran his fingers up the back of Sherlock’s head and massaged his scalp. Sherlock pressed his head against John’s chest and rolled his head so John was rubbing the side of his head. John felt and heard a deep sigh slip from Sherlock and knew he wanted to hear more. Moving his hand to the side of Sherlock’s face, he used his thumb to press up under his jaw and stepped back slightly to tilt Sherlock’s head up.

“What do you want, Sherlock? You have to be clear with me. I won’t accept anything else,” John murmured and watched the blue grey eyes dilate at his words.

Sherlock swallowed tightly and John felt a new pressure at the front of his thigh.

“John, I want...I want to...I want you to fuck me.”

John raised an eyebrow at the blush that immediately stained Sherlock’s cheeks as his gaze dropped off to the side. John found the shy Sherlock adorable and slightly arousing. Correct that, it wasn’t a case of slightly arousing. It was the most arousing thing John had ever seen. He mind went into overdrive and all he could think about was just ruining Sherlock; make him blackout in pleasure; he wanted Sherlock to remember who fucked him every time he shifted, stood or walked anywhere.

John dipped his head and licked at Sherlock’s neck before nibbling at the sensitive flesh. Sherlock gasped and arched into John’s firm body. He tipped his head to the side and felt John cradle it as his lips left his throat and moved up to the shell of his ear.

“No, Sherlock, I’m not just going to fuck you. I’m going to make love to you. I’m going to break you down and worship every inch of you. I’m going to suck and lick my way up and down your body. I’m going to make you gasp and moan and whimper my name until I’m all you can think about.”

Sherlock gasped and threw his head back, baring his long pale throat as an offering. John leaned down and bit sharply at the meaty flesh where neck and shoulder met. He didn’t break skin but it was a sharp reminder of who was in control. It would also bruise beautifully and everyone who saw it would know that Sherlock Holmes was claimed. The body under his lips was trembling and the sounds coming from Sherlock’s lips should have been illegal. Growling, John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s lower back and pulled him forward off the stool while at the same time he wrapped another arm under Sherlock’s arse and kicked the stool out from under him. Staggering momentarily under the added weight, he turned and pinned Sherlock to the fridge and both men grunted at the force. Sherlock’s legs wrapped around his waist tightly and that pressed his groin tightly against John.

“Take me apart, John. Make me yours, John. Make me scream,” Sherlock growled in John’s ear.

John knew Sherlock said it to provoke him but he didn’t care. Carrying Sherlock towards his bedroom, he kicked open the door and fell onto the bed with Sherlock under him. Despite the soft landing it knocked the breath from Sherlock and he sucked it back in as John started kissing down his chest. His wrists were pinned at his side and he struggled momentarily before giving up with a moan. John licked and kissed down his torso aiming for the nipples that John just knew would be sensitive. Everything about Sherlock was sensitive. The choking cry that erupted from those lips when he sucked the nipple into his mouth confirmed his theory.

“John! John, please don’t tease me.”

John smiled around the nipple. “This isn’t teasing. This is foreplay.”

Sherlock whimpered and pressed his head back into the pillow. John released the nipple and moved over to the next one. He could feel Sherlock’s legs tightening around him and trying to pull him up but John’s weight was heavy on Sherlock’s wrists. They would bruise but John could feel nothing but pleasure at that thought. John shifted on his knees and slid down Sherlock’s body suddenly, feeling Sherlock’s thighs catch under his arms and straightening him out. John dipped his head under his arm and nipped sharply at the inside of Sherlock’s fabric covered thigh. His hips surged forward with a sharp cry and John chuckled darkly.

Sherlock didn’t know what was happening. His mind was falling over itself trying to keep track of John’s lips and body. He couldn’t control the noises coming from his throat and he didn’t care to try really. His body was burning and seemed too small for his skin. He craved something but what-oh! John had released his hands and palmed his eager cock through his trousers. Sherlock was panting and seemed unable to assist John in removing the offending garment. The best he could do was raise his hips just enough to remove the trousers and pants. Finally! Some appendage was listening to his short circuiting brain. His arms reached up and grabbed at John who had just lost his own trousers and pants and had just pulled off his jumper. Sherlock grabbed the undershirt and used it to help pull himself so he was kneeling on the bed in front of John. He kissed John deeply as his hands slowly released his grip and slowly ran up his sides and under the shirt. Continuing to kiss, his hands pushed up the fabric until they broke the kiss and John raised his arms so Sherlock could remove the undershirt. As John lowered his arms, he watched as Sherlock gently trailed his fingertips down his torso and shifted forward to kiss across the collarbone. He kissed across John’s chest and hesitated upon reaching the scar tissue. He started kissing again but it was more delicate and his tongue darted out to lick at the damaged tissue.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked softly and ran his nose over the scars.

“Only during bad weather. It’s sensitive in some places; numb in others. Nerve damage,” John replied just as softly as his hands moved to Sherlock’s elbows.

John’s thumb rubbed gently over the faded scars from Sherlock’s recreational drug use. Both men were quiet as they thought over their history and where it brought them.

“I’m sorry you were hurt but I’m glad for it. It brought you to me and I will be forever thankful for that,” Sherlock murmured and kissed the scars again before straightening to look at John.

John smiled and raised Sherlock’s arm to kiss at his inner elbow.

“I’m sorry you felt this was the only way to escape. But it helped to shape who you are today,” John replied and released his arm to run his hand down Sherlock’s side and around his body to cup his arse.

“And I love your shape,” he growled and shoved Sherlock back to the bed.

John covered Sherlock with his body and rutted gently against him. Sherlock cried out again and went to wrap his legs around John’s waist. His arm reached out and pawed at one of his nightstands and pulled open the drawer before fumbling around. Finding what he wanted, he withdrew a bottle of lubricant with a cry of triumph. John raised an eyebrow before grabbing it out of his hands.

“I’m not going to ask why you have a bottle of lubricant in your bedside table.”

“It was for a case, John, really. What-” his comments were cut off when John wrapped a warm hand around his aching cock and gave it a firm squeeze.

Sherlock was frozen as sensations raced through his body. John swiped his thumb across the sensitive head and Sherlock breath caught in his throat. John was certainly following through on his promise to take Sherlock apart. Sherlock could already feel his mind short circuiting and knew he wouldn’t last long. John licked one long stripe up Sherlock’s cock and he knew he wasn’t going to last. He vaguely heard the bottle cap open, he was more focused on John’s tongue and his other hand. John swallowed him down but kept a firm grip around the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock could feel his orgasm churning at the base of his spine but it wouldn’t move.

“John...John, please,” Sherlock begged and thrust his hips forward.

“What neurohormones are released during orgasm?” John asked abruptly as his slicked finger started massaging Sherlock’s hole.

Sherlock moaned at the promise of more to come and it took him a moment longer to realize that John had asked him something.

“Hunh? What?”

“List the neurohormones released during orgasm or I stop.”

Sherlock lifted his head to look at John who stared up at him. Without breaking his gaze, John stopped his finger’s movements and lowered his head to take just the swollen head of Sherlock penis in his mouth. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and allowed his head to drop back to the pillow.

“Uh, orgasm dumps the hormones oxytocin *groan* and...and prolactin...as well as a variety of endorphins *pant* into the bloodstream!” Sherlock finished with a yell as John deep throated him as well as slip a finger into his anus.

Sherlock curled his fingers into John’s short hairs as his hips started rocking against the finger. John slowly slid his finger in and out as Sherlock groaned.

“Tell me about the endorphins,” John ordered when he removed his mouth from Sherlock’s weeping cock.

Sherlock panted and whimpered for a moment before the finger in him stilled and there was no more attention to his cock.

“Sherlock?”

“End-Endorphins is the bastardized word for-” two fingers slid into him and immediately found his prostate “for - oh god- endogenous morphine.”

Sherlock wailed as his prostate was ruthlessly massaged but John’s firm grip at the base of his cock held off his orgasm. His mind was bringing up every fact he knew about orgasm and the chemical reactions he was hoping to be experiencing very soon. He knew exactly what John was doing to him. He was engaging his brain just as well as he was engaging his body and they were fighting over which one was going to win out. It was also nudging his orgasm cliff farther and farther by just increments so when he finally did fall off it was going to be spectacular.

“List the base elements of oxytocin,” John said, his voice a tone deeper than normal and Sherlock was pleased to know he wasn’t the only one affected.

Sherlock’s body had the upper hand and his mind had joined the dark side. He struggled to dig out the chemical formula for oxytocin. And he just wanted the base elements, not the empirical or molecular formula. But Sherlock’s mind was too occupied by the delicious sensations to think about chemistry. John’s finger slowed and Sherlock wanted to sob as he tried desperately to get those fingers moving again.

“Uh...um, oxytocin...consists of carbon and helium - oh god, yes!”

John slid three fingers in and started scissoring them to stretch Sherlock out. The slight burned faded away quickly as John occasionally brushed against his prostate.

“What else?” John murmured as his fingers slowed.

“Please! Um, next val-value is N and it stands for...for...uh, damn Nitrogen!” Sherlock yelled, trying to wrestle his brain into helping out.

“Good, Sherlock, just two more base elements. Tell me those two more and I’ll finish it for you,” John whispered and Sherlock suddenly realized his eyes were closed.

“Two more?” he asked weakly as the fingers slipped from him.

He didn’t try to open his eyes. If he kept them closed he might have a chance of focusing on those last two elements.

“Carbon...helium...nitrogen...and….and...oxygen and sulfur!” he cried out and lifted his head as his eyes snapped open to look at John.

Just as he answered, John thrust forward to slide his slick coated cock into Sherlock. The detective’s eyes clenched shut and his head snapped back as a cry was ripped from his throat. So full, so hot. John didn’t move, letting Sherlock adjust to the intrusion. John lowered his head to Sherlock’s chest and gently kissed along the collarbone as he supported his upper body over Sherlock.

“You feel amazing, Sherlock. You are amazing,” John murmured and rocked gently.

Sherlock dug his nails into John’s back as he arched against him to pull him tighter in. It wasn’t going to take long; both of them were so close. Sherlock’s mind flashed back to before. Feeling John’s heartbeat slow and then cease. The blood that stained his hands. The thought of being without this amazing man who was doing such fantastic things to him. John was his and he wasn’t letting go. Ever.

Sherlock cried out and arched into John as his orgasm washed over him and took him away. His legs locked around John’s torso and he felt himself falling down a tunnel. Every sound echoed through his head and his jaw clenched to hold back the moans and whimpers. He heard the echo of his name being gasped and strong fingers digging into his hips. Warmth spread through him and he could hear whimpering and it took him a while to realize that he was the one whimpering.

Sound came back slowly just as his legs slid from around John and flopped back to the bed. Blinking slowly, he weakly turned his head to look at John and observed the older man. His face was tilted towards Sherlock and his torso was flush against the other man’s. His lips were parted as he panted and Sherlock could feel the puffs of air against his neck. Sherlock lifted the arm that wasn’t trapped under John and gently trailed his fingertips down John’s temple. The Doctor’s eyes opened slowly and he blinked a few times before he could focus on the consulting detective.

“You alright?” John asked softly, hesitant to break the post-sex silence.

Sherlock was silent as he thought through the question. “I am now.”

“Want to take me through what that was about?”

“I was given a lecture and had an epiphany.”

John raised an eyebrow and shifted to let his limp cock slip from Sherlock. Rolling onto his side, he propped up his head and stared at Sherlock. “An epiphany? And what was it exactly that prompted you to tackle me behind a dumpster and snog me on the street?”

Sherlock was again silent as he threaded his fingers into John’s hair. His mind superimposed the image of John weakly smiling before dying in Sherlock’s arms. Suddenly, he’s aware of an uncomfortable prickling at the corner of his eyes and his vision blurs. Taking a deep breath, he reigned in his tears even though John saw the moisture. The Doctor immediately reached out to cradle Sherlock’s face and rub a thumb across the sharp cheekbone.

“Sherlock? Tell me.”

Sherlock chuckled and debated telling John the truth of what he saw; what he learned. Maybe another day.

“Just the epiphany that you love me. And that I love you. I didn’t realize it until it was shown to me but I love you.”

He shifted forward and kissed John gently before snuggling closer. John took the hint and laid on his back to let Sherlock rest his head on his chest. Tugging the duvet up over their bodies, John ran a soothing hand over Sherlock’s back. His turned his head and buried his nose into the dark curls and took a deep breath.

“I love you too, you brilliant man,” he murmured and felt as well as heard the pleasurable hum of approval coming from the other man.

 

(!)(!)(!)

 

Two etheral looking women stood over the bed and looked down at the two sleeping men. One woman was wrapped in a grey silk toga with a snow white owl perched on her shoulder. Her eyes were a smokey-grey that took in everything. Her face was delicate with high cheekbones.

The other woman was wrapped in a black cloak with a deep hood that fell down her back. Her black hair fell in waves down into the hood and both her hands were wrapped around the well worn wood of the scythe. The blade was curved over her head as she rested it against her shoulder. Death looked over at the other woman  and raised an eyebrow before turning her gaze back to the bed.

“Satisfied?”

The other woman nodded as she finally broke her gaze from the bed and looked at Death. Her grey eyes shifted slightly color and Death was reminded of the detective’s grey eyes. Of course. The other woman was Athena. Greek goddess of intelligence, skill and wisdom among other things. Death knew that Athena looked after her children. The intelligent ones.

“It is always so difficult to make them realize they are allowed to love and be loved,” Athena commented and Death rolled her eyes.

“All that intelligence and you all are still idiots.”

Athena shot Death a heated look and Death chuckled because she knew exactly where Sherlock learned it from. Well, where it genetically came from. Death shrugged and looked back to the two sleeping men. She smiled briefly and gently touched Athena’s elbow.

“Come, let us leave.”

Athena nodded and didn’t look as Death disappeared. She was just there one moment and gone the next. Athena stepped closer to the bed and reached out to gently touch the heads of both men.

“He’s not perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you can. He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking of you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don’t hurt him, don’t change him, and don’t expect more than what he can give. Don’t analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect men don’t exist, but there’s always one man that’s perfect for you.”

Sherlock murmured softly and tightened his arm around John’s waist to snuggle closer. In response John tightened his grip and rubbed his cheek against Sherlock’s head. Athena smiled and straightened. She was done here. Geniuses do deserve to love and be loved. And they were the best lovers once they realized it.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He’s not perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you can. He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking of you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don’t hurt him, don’t change him, and don’t expect more than what he can give. Don’t analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that’s perfect for you.~~Bob Marley

**Author's Note:**

> In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;  
> And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.  
> Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.  
> Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.  
> Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?  
> Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?
> 
> For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?  
> And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
> 
> Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.  
> And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.  
> And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
> 
> ~The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran


End file.
